


A Miscalculation

by Jess2708 (KingRickon)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Broken Time Turner, Dumbledore miscaluclated, Even I'm surprised the Dursleys are in this, Fudge is Fudge, Gen, Memory Charms, Misguided Dumbledore, Muggles, No-one cares about Hermione, Time Travel, Unspeakables, Worldbuilding, but he's actually not too bad in this, except McGonagall, plot-science, real subtle that one, someone's using John Smith as an alias
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-02-17 12:37:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13077021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingRickon/pseuds/Jess2708
Summary: "I make mistakes like the next man. In fact, being – forgive me – rather cleverer than most men, my mistakes tend to be correspondingly huger."  - Albus DumbledoreIn which Albus Dumbledore makes a miscalculation, Sirius Black is now wanted not only for the murder of thirteen people, but also the abduction of two students, Minvera McGonagall is understandably ticked off, Cornelius Fudge is being, well, Cornelius Fudge and it looks like Broderick Bode will have to work over time for a month. Elsewhere, Mr Dursley visits his sister.A collection of shared universe oneshots, that I may add more to later on.





	1. Albus

**Author's Note:**

> This is a test run for a bigger story I have planned. Just putting it out there to see if the idea gathers interest.

#### Albus

##### – I –

 

“Well, you were right to call us in,” Bode finally admitted, turning back to face the rest of group, removing his glowing spectacles as he did. “There’s definitely been a breach. Big one too by the looks of it. Time’s been torn here. C’mon Croaker, let’s show them what we’re dealing with.”

Croaker, who had been busying himself by fiddling with some sort of contraption, stood up and wiped the sweat from his brow. He muttered an incantation, pointing his wand at the device, which began to spin and let out a great deal of steam. A great golden light erupted above the party of five.

“Merlin’s beard,” Fudge whispered, his face bathed in the golden glow, as he squinted up at the source of the light. “What _is_ that?” His voice echoed far more than it had any right to, here in the open grounds of Hogwarts.

“Why, I thought it would be obvious, my dear Minister,” answered Croaker, addressing the group for the first time that morning, a crooked grin split upon his lips. “That, is the breach.”

Breach was one word to label the mess unfurling above their heads. Abomination was another, which Albus thought was more apt. A myriad of golden tendrils extended in every direction, all linking back to what could only be described as a crack – a jagged golden line that was about seven feet long and two feet across, suspended about forty feet above the ground. The whole thing pulsated accusingly, like it had a twisted heartbeat. ‘ _Your fault. Your fault._ ’ The rift decreed with every beat _._ It was as if the breach knew that it was not supposed to exist, and now was casting its judgement down upon Albus, for daring to play a part in its creation.

 

Albus sighed. Today was shaping up to be another long day.

 

“So that how he did it?” the Minister asked, looking to Bode and Croaker. “That’s how Black escaped?” he continued, when neither of the unspeakables made any move to answer him. “He tore open this – this breach, and jumped through it? And he took Potter and what’s-her-name – the Gringer girl –”

“Granger,” Minerva cut in, her lips thin and her voice terse. “The girl’s name is Hermione Granger.”

“Yes, well, her name’s not important,” Fudge blustered, despite Minerva’s increasingly narrowed eyes. Albus stepped forward, subtly putting himself between Minerva and the Minister. He shot her a warning look. The tensions between Hogwarts and Fudge were already high enough – Fudge hadn’t forgiven Albus yet for letting Harry and Hermione escape the hospital wing last night. An irate Professor McGonagall lecturing the head of Wizarding Britain about the importance of Hermione Granger was only going to add fuel to that fire, right as she may be. Minerva simmered under his gaze, but thankfully stayed silent, although her lips were dangerously thin.

Fudge, completely unaware of the sleeping dragon he was poking, blathered on, “What _is_ important is the girl’s Time-Turner. That’s how he did it, isn’t it? He used her Time-Turner to open that _thing_ , and then nabbed Potter and the girl and hopped right through it! Nasty business, that’s what it is … we should have never left the children alone with a Time-Turner – they were obviously not in their right minds … I daresay they freed that Hippogriff too … Honestly! I’ll be a laughingstock when this gets out. Black sprung from right under my nose by two confounded teenagers, using a ministry issued Time-Turner to boot! … and now he’s absconded with the Boy-Who-Lived … they’re probably halfway to You-Know-Who already … this a absolute disaster … why we trusted a thirteen-year-old girl with a Time-Turner, I’ll never know.”

Albus heard Minevra’s sharp intake of breath – presumably to enlighten Fudge on the merits of said thirteen-year-old girl; Minerva had, after all, been the driving force behind Hermione receiving the contraption in the first place – and decided it was time to intervene. “My dear Cornelius, – please forgive me my choice of words here – but the past is in the past.” Literally, if Albus’ suspicions were correct. With the rift above him, and the loss of the Dursley blood wards last night, it was becoming all too apparent what had happened… “If this disaster has taught us anything, it’s that we should not attempt to change it. It does not do to dwell on the choices that led us here; not with two of my students missing. We should be figuring out where they are, not arguing over the Time-Turner. If we focus on determining where this breach leads, we may have a better idea of the danger Harry and Hermione are in, and, Merlin willing, a way to retrieve them.”

“When. Headmaster,” Bode corrected. “Not where, but when. A breach like this … the time turner would have to be destroyed while it was in flux … the destruction of an hour-reversal charm like that … well, they could be anywhere in the past 500 years. And that’s if we’re lucky.” Ah. It was as Albus had feared. Harry was lost to time.

Fudge paled considerably. “Black’s loose somewhere in the past?” he asked, a hint of fear in his voice. “There’s no telling what sort of havoc he could wreak … this is a danger to the security of the entire wizarding world!”

we’re not exactly sure if Black went through the breach. Potter and the girl did, that much is certain. They were under the effects of the hour-reversal, so they –”

“and anything they took with them when they used the Time-Turner,” Croaker interrupted.

“– so, they would have been pulled through,” Bode continued, with a snide glance at Croaker. “We have no-way of telling what else went through. It could have been Black. It could have been a bird, or nothing at all. It could have been a ruddy dementor, and we’d never know.”

“So Black might still be here,” Minerva inferred, looking slightly brighter. “In our time, I mean. That is some small consolation, I suppose – Potter and Granger might not be in the company of a mass murderer after all.” It wasn’t actually any consolation at all. Albus would greatly prefer that Harry and Granger had some sort of supervision, even if Sirius was by no means a responsible adult, rather than being stranded alone whenever they were. Especially if they were stuck in a time before the statute of secrecy. But Minerva was not to know any of that – she still thought Sirius a Death Eater. He had yet to share his revelation of Sirius’ innocence with her. With all the chaos, there hadn’t been time. She would believe him, most likely; she had always had a soft spot for Sirius and James. If she found out about the illegal animagi; why she might even be proud!

“We have no way of knowing either way, Professor,” said Croaker. “Unless we find Black, it’s impossible to say for sure.”

“Well, erm, Minister … the thing is, well … you see, it’s just that…” Bode stammered.

“We have absolutely no idea where they are,” Croaker interrupted flatly. “And if we did, we wouldn’t know the first thing about getting them back.”

“But can’t you just open the breach up and follow them through?” asked Fudge, frowning .

“If only it were that simple Minister,” sighed Croaker. “But this breach is like a scar in the fabric of time, not a wound. It’s already sealed shut, and there’s nothing we could do to open it. No wizard could. And even if we could there’s telling if we would be able to come back through.”

There was something about the way Croaker said wizard that gave Albus pause. It wasn’t that Croaker was lying; he exhibited none no the signs. No wizard could open the breach. No wizard… The beginnings of an idea began to form in Albus’ head.

But he was distracted from his musings by Fudge’s indignant exclamation “So you propose we do nothing Croaker? This is Harry Potter we are talking about! The Boy-Who-Lived! I can’t be seen sitting back and doing nothing! Surely there’s got to be something we can do” Fudge’s voice dropped to a whisper. “How about _Summoning_? Could we Summon Potter from wherever he is?”

“Summoning has been outlawed in Great Britain since the Stonehenge Massacre of 1634,” said Croaker in the same flat tone as before. “It hasn’t been practised since.” He glared at Fudge, daring the Minister to contradict him.

Fudge took up the challenge. “I am the Minister for Magic. I sign off on your reports. I have some idea of what goes on in that department of yours. Can we Summon Potter or not?”

“Well, Potter is a unique magical figure,” answered Bode, shiftily glancing at Albus and Minerva. “He’s the only known person to ever survive the killing curse. Hypothetically, it would be possible to string some runes together to create ritual and hone in on that. There’s nothing we could do for the girl though. She’s not linked to any special magic…”

“There’s nothing we can do for either of them,” interrupted Croaker yet again. “Summoning across time … well, there’s a reason why no-one ever Summoned Merlin over for tea … to pull someone through the fabric of time itself, the ritual would need a blood sacrifice the size of Wales!”

“Well, yes of course. That’s why I was speaking theoretically. See Minister, there really is nothing we can do. Harry Potter is gone. The wizarding world will just have to accept that.”

“If we’re lucky,” continued Croaker, bending down over his contraption again. “Potter and the girl will have left some sort of message for us somewhere, and we’ll discover that they’ve lived long full lives whenever they ended up.” The whirring of the device stopped and the golden gleam of the rift above them disappeared. “There’s nothing more we can do here Minister, Headmaster. Bode and I will head back to the department and scour over the time room. There’s a very small chance we might be able to determine what century they’re in, but I’m not making any promises.”

With that the two unspeakables stood up – Croaker hoisting his contraption over his shoulder – and made their way towards the front gate of Hogwarts, leaving a frazzled Minister in their wake.

“Well, that was certainly illuminating,” said Albus jovially, his tone hiding the deep unease he felt. “And not quite the outcome anyone was hoping for, I daresay. Look at the time, I’m running late for a meeting. Good day, Minister. Come along, Minerva.”

“Wait! Albus!” Fudge called, after Albus had begun to make his way towards the doors to the castle. “Surely there’s something that can be done … something Bode and Croaker haven’t thought of … please, you have to have an idea or two.”

“Nope,” Albus replied, his cheery tone disarming Fudge far better than he had expected. He did, of course, have plenty of ideas, – each one more desperate than the last – but Fudge wasn’t to know any of that. “I’m afraid Mr Potter is lost to us, at least for the time being. There’s simply nothing that we can do. Far better to forget about all this nonsense, if you ask me. Of course, if you do want to keep talking about it, I think I spy Rita Skeeter by the front gate. I’m sure she’d love a statement. Forgive me Cornelius, I’d love to stay and chat, but I really do have a meeting to get to. Good day! Come along, Minerva.”

Minvera, who was staring at Albus as equally gobsmacked as Fudge, closed her mouth, opened it and closed it again. It took her a few seconds to snap herself out of her stupor, before she followed Albus towards the castle, her brisk pace betraying her anger. She was only just able to contain herself until Fudge was out of earshot.

“Albus, what was that?” she hissed the moment she was sure the minister would not hear. “Two of our students – my Gryffindors – are missing, possibly in the company of Sirius Black, and you have the audacity to say we best forget about them?”

Her voice was rising with every word she uttered, reaching a level that wasn’t pleasing to his ears. This lecture had been coming ever since he stepped between her and Fudge. It wasn’t often that Minvera was this worked up, but when she was, Albus found it was always better to let her rant to blow off steam.

“He’s a murderer Albus! He’s had it out for Harry the entire year and now there’s a good chance he has him. And this is all because you let Hermione use the Time-Turner right under your nose! You knew she had it, and you knew they were confounded … I never would have believed you could let this happen … and the Minister doesn’t even care about Hermione. You heard them – they were ready to abandon her if there was a chance they could summon Harry back … Good Lord Albus, what are we going to tell her parents? They’ll be in uproar after this. You didn’t have to deal with them last year, when Hermione was petrified. I’d rather fight that basilisk, then go through that again… Oh, Albus what are we going to do?”

To be quite honest, Albus wasn’t sure how to answer Minerva. He hadn’t stopped to consider Hermione’s parents. It was a completely different situation from the Dursleys, who would take the news apathetically at best, and gleefully at worst. Hermione’s parents…Well he could always send a letter first, so he didn’t have to be present for the initial meltdown.

Minerva was blaming him for the whole situation too, at least partially. Rightfully so; the pair of Gryffindors had disappeared from under his nose. If Minerva knew that it had been Albus who planted the idea of using the Time-Turner in Granger’s head… Albus shuddered involuntary. Some things were best not thought about, and some secrets best left buried; for the greater good. Luckily, Albus was saved from having to come up with something to placate Minerva by the timely arrival of Pomona Sprout.

“Professor McGonagall,” she called, catching the pair right outside the main doors. “I’m so glad to have caught you.”

“Professor Sprout, I do hope this is important. The Headmaster was about to enlighten me with the reason behind…” Minerva trailed off, catching sight of the sullen boy trailing behind Pomona.

Albus was ashamed to realize that he didn’t quite recognize the student. Normally, he made an effort to learn the names of all the first years by the school year’s end, but with his removal from the Hogwarts last year, and the chaos surrounding Black and the dementors, he had gotten quite lax. He wasn’t even sure what year the boy was in. He was a Gryffindor – Albus could determine that much from his tie, which explained why Pomona had brought him here. The boy was obviously in trouble for something or other, and outside of class, the duty of determining punishment generally fell to the Head of House, in this case Minerva. But beyond that Albus knew nothing. Vague memories of the boy sitting at the Gryffindor Table at meals floated to him – but did he sit with the Creevey boy and the other second years or was it the Brown boy and his gaggle of first years?

Minerva however, certainly knew who he was. Her eyes flicked between Pomona and the boy, who was staring steadfastly at the ground.

“Again?” she asked, incredulously. The boy shrank under her gaze, rubbing the back of his neck nervously; his fingers catching in his scruffy auburn hair. “This is the third time this month!”

“I can’t help it,” mumbled the child, his eyes boring holes in his feet. “He misses me, is all. He didn’t mean to scare anyone, honest. If I could just bring him in to the castle sometimes –”

“How many times do I have to tell you,” sighed Minerva, “that the only pets allowed at Hogwarts are owls, cats and toads. I need you to work with me on this. We’ve already made concessions, in light of your situation – no-one else is allowed to keep a pet in the forest.”

“He’s not a pet! He’s a –”

Whatever the boy was going to say was lost to Albus, who had taken advantage of Minerva’s distraction and slipped into the Castle unnoticed. She’d have his head for that later, there was no doubt. But Albus did have an appointment that he was running late for; and considering the self-esteem of young Neville Longbottom, it wouldn’t do to keep him waiting any longer then strictly necessary.

Continuing what was becoming a streak of luck, Albus was able to reach his office with no further distractions. Longbottom was already inside and was absently petting Fawkes. For a painful moment there was another young Gryffindor standing in front of him, staring down at the ashes of his phoenix, but the vision was gone as soon as it appeared. He cleared his throat.

“P-professor Dumbledore, sir” stuttered Longbottom, leaping away from Fawkes in his fright. “S-sorry, the door was open, I didn’t mean t-to intrude.”

“It’s quite alright Mr Longbottom,” replied Albus, his jovial tone genuine this time. “I’m afraid I was unavoidably detained. Please take a seat, I fear we have lots to discuss.”

Longbottom did so, and seemed to calm a smidge once he was in a chair. He had stopped trembling at least, which was a start. He allowed himself a moment to look over the boy. Sweat clung to his sandy brown hair and his round face. It was almost impossible to see any trace of Frank and Alice, in the boy. If Albus didn’t know any better, he’d assume the weren’t related. But the boy had his moments. Moments when the strength of his parent shone through – moments like the time he stood up to Harry, Granger and Weasley when they went after Quirrel. Longbottom had potential, however hidden it may be. Albus was going to do his best to bring that potential to the surface.

Not that he was writing off Harry, by any means. No, not at all. He was already formulating a plan to bring Harry back, and he had just the right person in mind who could carry it out. A volunteer even. And if he failed, there were a few other ideas worth merit to fall back on. Nevertheless, the moment he discovered the Dursley blood wards had fallen, Albus had setup this meeting with Neville. If the events of the past twenty-four hours had made anything clear, it was that all plans could go awry, even the best laid, – which admittedly, this one wasn’t – and he should always have a backup. So, while Albus didn’t believe that he had seen the last of Harry Potter, he was going to train Longbottom as if he had. And if – no, when – Harry returned, there would be no great loss. In order to bring about the final death of Voldemort, it wouldn’t do for Albus to put all his eggs in one basket.

“Why did you want to see me, Headmaster?” asked Longbottom timidly, though thankfully without his stutter.

“Ah, well, Professor Snape tells me you haven’t been performing very well in Potions.” Longbottom paled, obviously expecting some sort of punishment. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. We all have our strengths and weaknesses. Why, I must confess that I’ve always been quite rubbish at Divination. I am however, quite adept at Potions, and I’ve found quite a bit of free time in my schedule next year.” A lie, of course. Albus had a busy schedule on a good year, and with Hogwarts hosting the Triwizard Tournament, his free time would be very limited. But it was far too early in the game to let the boy in on how much he was rearranging his life for him. “So, what do you say, Mr Longbottom? With me as your tutor, I’m sure we can have you topping Potions by Easter.”

 

Longbottom fainted.

 

Oh dear. Albus was really going to have his work cut out for him next year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so this is my first fic, and it's more a collection of shared universe one-shots then anything else. The whole major plan with this is a cliche time-turner accident sends Harry to another world plot, but this story just contains the chapters about the people Harry left behind. I've yet to read a fic of this sort, where after Harry/the main character, makes his time/world jump, any time at all is spent on everyone else reacting to his absence.
> 
>  
> 
> I'm going to post the proper story eventually, which will focus on Harry and Hermione, wherever they may be. Think of this as an appetizer for that. A trial run for my writing, and a teaser trailer for the main event.
> 
>  
> 
> Oh, and on a whim I added another chapter. I might add one more, from Neville's point of view, but no promises.


	2. Marjorie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Dursley receives some visitors.

#### Majorie

##### – II –

 

 

 

Miss Marjorie Dursley, of Number Seventy-Six Wakefield Road, was proud to say that she was perfectly normal, thank you very much. She was the last person you’d expect to be involved with anything strange and mysterious, because she just didn’t hold with that nonsense.

Marjorie was a rather accomplished dog-breeder, if she did say so herself. Her bulldogs often took first place at the local shows, and her Ripper had even been a finalist at Crufts in Birmingham once. She was a large beefy woman with barely any neck, and sported an absurdly large moustache for a woman, though no-one had ever dared to comment about it to her face. At age forty-two, Marge was a still a bachelorette – perfectly respectable at her age, mind you – although she did have her eye on her next-door neighbour, the retired Colonel Fubster. She didn’t have any children, and was perfectly happy about that, she couldn’t stand the nasty things. In fact, there was only one child she had ever been able to stomach, the exception to her rule, and that was her nephew Dudley.

Marge’s brother Vernon had married well below his station, and whilst she had not initially approved of his bride, all had been forgiven after Petunia had birthed a healthy boy. At age fourteen, Dudley had become a shining young gentleman, and in Marge’s opinion, there was no finer boy anywhere. There was nothing in the world that Marge enjoyed more than doting on him, and it was her deepest regret that she couldn’t see Dudley more often. It couldn’t be helped though. Vernon and Petunia lived in Surrey for Vernon’s work – he was a director at a successful drill frim called Grunnings – and that was far too close to London for Marge’s liking. She couldn’t abide big cities. No, the countryside was the place for her, where she could spend her days with her bulldogs and the Colonel. That didn’t stop her from visiting whenever she had the opportunity, which wasn’t too regular because she couldn’t bear to be apart from her bulldogs for long.

Miss Dursley had almost everything she ever wanted, yet there was one blight upon her life. You see, Petunia had a nephew named Harry; a nasty, dreadful boy Dudley’s age, that Marge preferred not to think about. After Petunia’s tramp sister, and her good-for-nothing husband had gotten themselves killed in car accident – drunk-driving, no doubt – the baby boy had been unceremoniously dumped on their doorstep. Vernon and Petunia had, out of the goodness of their hearts, taken Harry in, fed him, clothed him, and he had repaid them with nothing but years of trouble. If it had been up to Marge, the brat would have been dumped at the closest orphanage, or better yet, thrown in the nearest river. It wasn’t up to Marge though, and Petunia, who had always been a bit too soft, had convinced Vernon to raise the boy, out of misguided grief for her horrible sister. The insolent child had gone on to terrorise the neighbourhood, as Vernon informed Marge whenever she visited, until he had finally been shipped away to St Brutus’ Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys, an institution for mentally subnormal and violent teenage delinquents. Unfortunately, St Brutus’ was still a school, and was closed for the holidays so Vernon and Petunia had to put up with the boy each summer.

The little criminal had been there when Marge had visited last year, and he had been as disgustingly foul as ever. The whole memory of her visit was unusually hazy to Marge, so she didn’t often dwell on it. Instead she focused on her other visits whenever she thought of Harry, which only happened occasionally; her mind liked to wander while she sipped her morning cup of tea. Sometimes she couldn’t help but think of the burden he had been on poor Dudley’s childhood.

It was on one fine morning like this, when Marge was musing over how the brat had tried to cheat Dudley in musical statue at his fifth birthday, that she heard a surprising knock at the door. Her unexpected visitor hammered at the door four times, and as she got up to answer, Ripper following at her heels, Marge wondered who it could be. Colonel Fubster was her only regular houseguest, and he was away at an army reunion. It couldn’t be the postman, he was petrified of her dogs. She hoped it wasn’t a door-to-door salesman. Marge abhorred the scheming conmen who would try to peddle off second-rate goods or worse ask her to donate to a _charity_ , and they had long since learned to avoid calling at number seventy-six. But, to her surprise, she didn’t find any salespeople on her front porch, nor a terrified postie. It wasn’t even Colonel Fubster, returned early and popping in to share a cup of tea. It was one of the last people Marge expected to turn up on her doorstep on a Thursday morning, for he should have been at work in London.

It was her brother, Vernon.

He wasn’t alone. There were three other men crowding her doorstep as well. Vernon had never been a small man by any measure – Dursleys grew large, her grandmother had always said – but today his girth threatened to block his companions from view. Vernon’s face was uncharacteristically pale and Marge could spot sweat forming on his forehead, which was odd, because there was a nice breeze blowing and it wasn’t hot out at all. If Marge didn’t know any better, she’d say Vernon was nervous. He was never nervous though; her father had raised a strong, fearless Dursley man, not some balmy, pansy milksop. Vernon’s companions were all new faces to Marge, but they were all dress in fine business clothes. Perhaps they were colleagues of Vernon, in the area for a business trip and they decided to stop by for a surprise visit.

“H-hullo, Marge,” stammered Vernon, wiping the sweat from his face. What was up with him? He sounded almost afraid. “May we come inside?”

Marge, who was still recovering from the shock of so many unexpected guests, nodded blankly. Vernon hurried into the house, his companions following. Without Vernon in the way, Marge got her first proper look at the others as they brushed past her into the house, Ripper sniffing excitedly at their heels. They were unremarkable men, each one not particularly good-looking. The first man, the tallest one, was all prim and proper – his suit had every crease ironed out, his black hair was parted and combed immaculately to the left – and his face seemed to be permanently etched into a frown. Ripper growled at him as he walked by, and Marge had to pick the dog up to calm him. The other two men were laxer, if only slightly. One had a mop of rather frizzy brown hair and the last man, who looked great deal older then the other two – Marge would eat her hat if he was a day under sixty – was thin and balding, only wisps of grey hair clinging to his scalp. He was carrying a rather large briefcase, as was the tall man. They both were made of well-polished black leather and looked very expensive.

All three followed Marge into the sitting room, where Vernon had already planted himself in his favourite armchair. Once they were all seated, Marge finally found her voice. “Can I offer anyone a cup of tea?”

The brown-haired man brightened at that, but the tall man answered for them all. “No, no, Miss Dursley. Don’t trouble yourself. I’m afraid we’re running on a rather tight schedule. Sit down so we can begin,” he drawled. His voice had a distinct American twang. Ruddy foreigners!

“Oh,” replied Marge. It was all she could think to say. Normally she would have given the man a piece of her mind for refusing her hospitality, and being such a rude houseguest, but he had such an imposing air about him; even Marge could see that this wasn’t someone to be trifled with.

“Now, Miss Dursley, my associates and I represent an organisation called the Veritas Foundation for Global Wellbeing, which your brother has recently joined,” he began after Marge had sat down. She had never heard of any Veritas Foundation, but it sounded elite, and if Vernon had joined, it must be doing something right. Unless it was a charity and they had somehow managed to hoodwink her brother… Vernon was smarter than that though, so Marge wasn’t too worried.

“My name is John Smith, and this is Doctor Ian Underhill,” the tall man continued, nodding to the older man, who was seated to his left. “Obviously, you already know Vernon, and my final associate is…”

“Doctor David Granger,” interrupted the frizzy-haired man proudly. “Of Granger and Granger Dental. The leading oral health specialist in the greater London…”

“Now, Doctor,” Mr. Smith cut in, “don’t advertise to Mrs Dursley. I’m sure she doesn’t want to hear it.”

Smith was right; Marge didn’t want to hear it. She wasn’t fond of dentist and doctors; namby-pamby, smarmy people, who thought themselves superior because they had spent a few more years at school and received a piece of paper. Marge never normally got sick – those strong Durley genes – and she didn’t believe in fillings and dentistry – she could take perfectly good care of her teeth on her own, thank you very much – so she had been lucky enough not to have visited a medical centre for the past few years. She was liking this Granger less by the second, he looked every bit a typical dentist.

“What brings you here?” Marge asked, pushing her hatred of the medical profession to the back of her mind. “And what does your foundation even do?”

“To answer your first question, Miss Dursley, we’re here because we believe you can be a great help to us,” said Smith, who was quite obviously the leader of this little group. “And as to your second – well, Veritas seeks to improve life for everyone on the planet. We do aid work in Africa and South Asia, run soup kitchens at Christmas, support orphanages, that sort of thing.

Good Lord! They _were_ a charity. To think Marge had let them _inside_ her house! And Vernon had been hoodwinked into this nonsense too. Why, if her Father could see this, he’d be turning in his grave.

“Of, course,” Smith continued hurriedly, seeing the anger flash across Marge’s face. “That’s all just a public front. Our real purpose is a great deal more important, and something best kept secret from the general public, at least for now. You see, Veritas aims to identify and expose group of dangerous and abhorrent individuals, who are scattered across the world. These people practice satanic rituals and can manipulate the paranormal in a way that can only be described as magic. They call themselves witches and congregate in secret societies all across the globe.”

What was this man on about? Witches? Magic? This was worse than a charity. Smith was insane. This was a group of jumped-up madmen, who had somehow brainwashed Vernon. Why, they were probably a cult! They’d hoodwinked Vernon out of all his money, - probably his house and car too – and now the thought they could try the same tricks on his sister. Well, Marge wasn’t one to be fooled quite so easily. Marge had always known that she was the smarter Dursley sibling, but it still rankled her to think that Vernon could believe this rubbish.

“Codswallop!” Marge declared. “Rubbish! All of it! Vernon, surely you don’t believe this nonsense. Magic … witches and wizard living among us … the whole thing’s absurd. If magic was real, I think people would have noticed by now. You’ve no proof of any of this.”

“Proof?” Granger spat. “I’ll give you proof. There’s stacks of spellbooks sitting in my house, flooded with those enchanted moving pictures. They indoctrinated my daughter … my sweet Hermione … said she was one of them, they did … oh yes … she got a magic stick, bought their books and went of to their little school … then, last June, what happens? Oh, we get a letter, delivered by one of their blasted owls … ‘Mr and Mrs Granger, we regret to inform you that due to a mishap with a time-turner, your daughter Hermione has been lost in time and is likely in the company of convicted criminal Sirius Black. Unfortunately, due to the nature of time travel, we are unable to attempt to retrieve her. We can only hope that wherever and whenever she is, she escaped Black and lived out a long and happy life.’ … Hermoine, my only child goes missing from their school, and they tell us about it in a _letter?_ And she’s with Black … he’s a bleedin’ mass-murderer for Chrissake … _unable to attempt to retrieve her,_ my bloody arse!”

Granger finally finished his tirade and leant back in his seat, red-faced, his chest heaving.

What the ruddy hell was that? Lost in time? Their story got more ridiculous with every word. “Spellbooks?” Marge asked Vernon incredulously, latching on the most coherent of Granger’s arguments. “You believe all this nonsense because they have some books? Any dolt can write a book, you should know that. That’s no proof at all.”

“Erm, well Margie … it’s not like that,” Vernon spluttered. “it’s just that … well you see … the thing is …”

“It’s Potter!” he finally blurted out.

“Your brat nephew? What does he have to do with any of this.”

“He a freak … I mean a wizard. He’s one of them. Abnormal little brat. He set a snake on Dudley once – I told you about that – but he bloody went and disappeared the glass of its enclosure! His parents were just like him – witches, the lot of ‘em. Bloody irresponsible too, went and got themselves blown up, and of course we get saddled with the kid. Had to keep him too – they put some bloody whatzits on the house. Can’t ever move either.”

He stopped to draw a breath and then continued ranting on. It was obvious that he had wanted to tell Marge about this for years.

“We tried to stamp the nonsense out of him, but nothing ever worked. He turned eleven and went off to that freak school of his and comes home threatening Dudley. He blew up one of Petunia’s cakes and ruined what could have been the biggest deal of my career. Then what does he do? He runs of in a ruddy flying car before I had the chance to give him the thrashing he deserved. And none of the others are any better, mind you. Their groundsman – big, lumbering oaf of a man – chased us halfway across the country and gave Dudley a flippin’ pig’s tail. Had to take him to the hospital to get it removed. And then now, we get a letter from them saying the boy’s gone and gotten himself kidnapped by a mass-murderer! Stolen from their school, right under their bloody noses. Now Petunia’s beside herself with grief – the boy is family after all, even though he’s a useless twat – and what do they do about it? Nothing. No search party, or alert, or anything. Not even a ruddy thank-you for raising the boy! So, I went and did my research on magic, – try and look for the boy to cheer Petunia up – and that’s where I found these Veritas people. They’re trying to make these wizards accountable for their actions; expose them to the world and make them pay for what they’ve done … I say it’s about bloody time!”

Marge’s head was spinning. She hadn’t heard Vernon sound this passionate about anything since … well, she’d never heard Vernon sound this passionate about anything. It was ridiculous – the whole concept was balmy. But if magic was real; if this wasn’t a sick joke, then Harry Potter was exactly the sort of person she’d expected to be involved with this freakish nonsense. And Vernon sounded so sure of himself too … besides, Marge had always wondered how the scoundrel had loosed that boa at the zoo … there had always been something _unnatural_ about him, she just hadn’t been able to put her finger on it.

“Okay,” said Marge, decided to hear Vernon out on this, at least for now. “Suppose you’re right, and this magic nonsense is real … and that Potter hellspawn is one of them … always knew there was something rotten about him … if it’s all true, where do I come in to it? I want no part in it, mind you. No spells, no sorcery. I’m not getting involved with any of it.”

“Ah, but Miss Dursley,” said the American, a sad smile on his face, “I’m afraid you’re already involved. We have reason to believe that you are under an enchantment. Tell me, what do you remember about the last time you visited your brother?”

Marge’s face blanched. She knew where this conversation was going. “You mean to tell me, that when I visited, that – that hellion, did _something_ to me?”

“Well, erm … yes,” Vernon managed, his nervousness suddenly back. “He blew you up like a ruddy balloon. You were stuck to the kitchen ceiling for hours. Then more of the show up and fix you, but they did something to your head, and the next day your barely remember your way around the house.”

Marge went purple. A balloon? Blew her up like a _balloon_? And they had messed with her mind? What did that even mean? “They meddled with my mind?” she screeched in outrage. She’d last seen boy over a year ago, and they had done something to her then. She hadn’t even realized it; hadn’t noticed a single thing out of the ordinary, not for all that time. Was her mind still afflicted? Was it permanent? Were these even her real thoughts?

“Yes, it’s rather unfortunate. These wizards have a way of erasing people’s memories. It’s how they’ve managed to stay hidden for so long,” Smith explained. “Everyone that stumbles across them loses all recollection of their encounter, and the wizards make off with all evidence of their existence. Only a select few a permitted to retain their knowledge – direct relatives for instance, like your brother and Doctor Granger here. Veritas has only continued to exist because we’ve been just as cautious as them – clinging to the shadows, not taking any risks. But, with your help Miss Dursley, that’s all about to change.”

“Me? I’m just a dog breeder. What am I meant to do?”

“Miss Dursley, you are far more important than you realise,” said Smith, turning towards the balding man. “Doctor Underhill, if you please…”

Underhill began opening his briefcase, while Smith continued speaking.

“Doctor Underhill here has been hard at work developing a chemical compound that we hope will reverse the effects of the wizards’ memory wipe. Due to the nature of memory loss, and own reluctance to risk any of our own operatives – there’s rumours these wizards can read minds – we’ve had quite the shortage of test subjects.”

Underhill produced a wicked looking needle from the briefcase, and began extracting an amber liquid from a bottle.

“No, Doctor,” said Smith, frowning at the needle. “Try Oblivium-Five this time.”

“Five?” squeaked the doctor, speaking for the first time. His voice was high and nasally. Marge hated it instantly. “I-If you’re sure. You’re the boss, boss.”

He placed the needle back in the briefcase and pulled out a transparent water bottle and tablet instead. He popped the tablet in the bottle where it began to bubble away, dissolving within seconds. Then he held the bottle towards Marge, who eyed it warily.

“With this, Miss Dursley, we can break the enchantment on you, and you can recover the parts of your life that the wizards have stolen from you,” said Smith eagerly, gesturing at the drink.

It looked so innocent and unassuming – a plastic water bottle, like one sold at a grocery, unlabelled and three-quarters full. There was no visible sign of anything amiss; the tablet had dissolved so well, that Marge couldn’t see a trace of it in the water. Still though, Marge didn’t really want to drink it.

Vernon nodded at her reassuringly. Against her better judgement, Marge took the bottle from the doctor and, hesitantly took a sip. It tasted just like normal water. If Marge hadn’t seen the tablet dissolve, she would have never known it was there. The drink was quite refreshing, actually. Marge hadn’t realized how dehydrated she was – she had never finished her tea, after all. Before she knew it, she had downed the whole bottle.

 

For a moment everything was normal, but then images exploded throughout her mind. Foreign memories danced across her vision. She was at Vernon’s, having dinner in their dining room. The potter boy was giving her cheek. Then she was swelling – swelling so very large, and floating out of her seat. Sounds flooded her ears too – Petunia’s shrieks, Ripper’s frenzied barks and Vernon’s bellows at the boy.

“COME BACK IN HERE!” he had yelled. “COME BACK AND PUT HER RIGHT.” But the boy – as predictably disrespectful as ever – hadn’t listened. Instead he had fled the house. Marge had been stuck to the ceiling until _they_ had arrived.

There had been three of them, all dressed in the most unusual, outlandish get-up Marge had ever seen. Some sort of medieval robe. Ridiculous! They had popped into the kitchen out of nowhere, pointed sticks at Marge, and before she knew it, she had been returned to normal. After that, the leader of the group had pointed his stick at Marge and the memory ended.

 

“My word,” said Marge, dazedly leaning back in her chair. “It’s all true. It happened – all of it. That blasted boy actually blew me up! The nerve of it! It was all just like you said, Vernon. And then they showed up – freaks in hoods. They got me down from the ceiling and did something to my mind!”

“Well that looks to be a success,” Smith said immediately., a smug smile gracing his face

He turned to Granger, “You will be upping your donations, now you’ve seen us in action, doctor? Don’t doubt us any more, do you?”

“Of-of course not,” spluttered the frizzy-haired man. “And yes, yes. You’re obviously getting some real work done. If it money you want, you’ll get it. Anything to get justice for Hermione.”

“Well, that settles that, then,” Smith declared. “We’re done here.”

With that he stood up and began to leave the room. His colleagues followed, Vernon included. Marge was astounded.

“You can’t just _leave_ ,” she all but yelled at their retreating backs. “Magic is real. There’s freakish people doing lord-knows-what out there. You can’t just tell someone that and then walk away! Come back! Vernon! VERNON!”

But none of them listened to her, not even her brother. All Marge got was a half-hearted promise from him as they were halfway down the driveway.

“I’ll, erm… I’ll call you tonight,” he called hastily over his shoulder. Then they all got into their cars and drove off, leaving Marge with only Ripper for company.

She waited fruitless for Vernon to come to his senses, turn around and come driving back, for far too long, before she went inside. Once in the kitchen, she immediately fixed herself another cup of tea, and spiked with quite a bit of brandy.

Despite the alcohol, she was still flustered for the rest of the day, and spent most of it sitting by the telephone awaiting Vernon’s call. He didn’t end up calling that afternoon though, nor in the evening. Eventually, once it got to nine-thirty, which was well past Marge’s usual bedtime, she decided to call it a night and went upstairs to shower and get ready for bed. She wasn’t sure how she was going to sleep though; her whole worldview had been tilted on its side, and her mind was buzzing with questions.

Marge did end up sleeping that night, at least until she was awoken by a clanging downstairs. At first, she thought it was Ripper. He had snuck into the kitchen before and made a racket trying to get at a midnight snack. But no, Ripper was still curled up be her side, snoring away. He was advanced in age now, and quite a bit deaf, so it seemed he had slept through the noise.

Marge checked her clock. _Eleven-thirty._ All her other dogs were in the kennels, so what could have made that racket?

Shrugging on her nightgown, she left her bedroom to investigate.

“Who’s there?” she called down the stairs, into the darkness. “Show yourself. I’m warning you – I’m armed.”

Marge didn’t have any weapons, but she did have a mean right hook – “I’m not raising any child that doesn’t know how to fight,” her father had always said.

“Terribly sorry,” came a voice from the kitchen. “Couldn’t find the light. Ah, here it is.”

That voice … Marge recognised that American accent. It could only be…

The light flared on and Marge’s suspicions were confirmed, as John Smith’s face came into view, peeking out from the kitchen. Marge glanced at the front door, which was still bolted shut; locked tight.

“How did you get inside?” she questioned. “More importantly, what are you doing here?”

“Well, Marge Dursley, at the foundation, there’s nothing we despise more than loose ends. We run a watertight operation. Very delicate work. It the wrong people found out about us before we’re ready, it could destroy everything we’ve worked for. So, you see, we can’t allow people to retain compromising information, if they aren’t useful to us. And you, Marge, are rapidly becoming less useful by the second.”

Unconsciously, Marge’s eyes darted all around the hall, looking for an escape route. She really didn’t like where this conversation was going…

“So, you’re just going to kill me?” she asked, unable to keep her voice from trembling. “Just like that? People will ask questions. I’ll be missed. I’m a very successful dog breeder, I’ll have you know.”

“And Vernon!” Marge exclaimed, suddenly remembering her brother. “He’ll be suspicious too. He’ll know something’s up. Comes to visit with you lot and I turn up dead the next morning. He’ll be onto you for sure.”

“Oh, Marge, you poor, besotted fool. When I tell your oaf brother that a wizard did it, I won’t exactly be lying, will I?”

Mr Smith was brandishing a stick in his left hand. An awfully familiar sort of stick…

“You … you’re one of them!” she gasped in horror.

It didn’t make sense. Why would a wizard be working to expose other wizards?

“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “Why are you doing this?”

“Oh, Marge,” the wizard replied. “Did you really think I would explain myself to _you_?”

He pointed the wand at Marge’s face and whispered, “ _Obliviate._ ”

“Was that supposed to do something?” Marge spat, adrenaline giving her some of that good old Dursley fighting spirit. “Not much of a wizard, are you?”

“Amazing,” the freak murmured, ignoring Marge’s jabs. “Oblivium-5 generates a total immunity to the charm. We can proceed to phase two.”

He looked up at Marge, and a wicked grin split across his face.

“So sorry, Marge. If that had worked, I would have let you live, but now, I really have no choice but to kill you.”

“Please,” Marge sobbed. “I’ll do anything. Please don’t kill me. Who’s going to take care of my dogs?”

 

But the man remained unmoved.

 

_“Avada Kedavra”_

 

The world went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tagged major character death just for the lols people, everyone knows she's not really important.
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> Wow. I'm not 100% sure why I'm uploading this. All of my ideas for this fic mainly involve Harry and Hermione's adventures off in whenever they are.. which would probably turn this into a crossover, because I want to put them in medieval setting, and I don't want to subject anyone to yet another Harry meets the founders fic. The less time spent thinking about those the better. So anyway, I thought I throw any potential readers a bone, while I'm off trying to figure out how to make Harry Potter work with A Song of Ice and Fire, because that's the only medieval fantasy that I love enough to write for. So that was the only other chapter I'd thought of that was purely HP. 
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> Where do we go from here? Who knows! Who's John Smith? A fairly one dimensional character that I still haven't fleshed out in my head. What does he want? Not really sure tbh.
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> Anyway, let me know if you liked it. or didn't like it. Or not. I'm not policing you. Stay turned for another random update coming probably never, or if you're an ASOIAF fan as well, subscribe to me for the epic Harry Potter crossover you never you needed till now. Coming this fall. Or much later. It'll be out before Winds of Winter though.


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